


the gun shot (in my heart) goes bang

by zhujungjungting (runswithchopsticks)



Series: i've waited, i've waited for the sun to rise [1]
Category: NU'EST, Produce 101 (TV), Wanna One (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Gen, M/M, but it's not rly descriptive, sort of war!au, there is some blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 00:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10955478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runswithchopsticks/pseuds/zhujungjungting
Summary: "He knows what Minhyun has been tasked with, why he's all the way here in Shanghai, trailing on the back of Jonghyun’s heels... Why he’s the one in the nice suit and Jonghyun is stuck wearing ill-fitting clothes he’d bought for cheap from a salesman on the street."Where they were once on equal footing, but now he and Minhyun are on two very different sides of the spectrum.





	the gun shot (in my heart) goes bang

**Author's Note:**

> hello! :* thank you for clicking on this fic. honestly it's a pretty overused prompt, but I had fun writing it (for the most part). please enjoy your read! <3 
> 
> inspo: far east movement ft. tinashe & chanyeol - freal luv  
> zico & girls' day sojin - it hurts
> 
> music: f(x) - beautiful stranger

**_start._ **

* * *

Jonghyun rubs the trigger of the gun strapped to his leg, concealed by the hidden pocket underneath his khakis. He stares out at the gray skyline on display in front of him, half of his body hidden behind the wall that met the side of the reflective glass.

It’s been such a long time, he thinks, since he’s gotten a quiet minute to himself to study the world beneath his feet. He gazes down at the streets. They’re painted the same dusty gray as the sky.

It’s not like the view is pretty. He sighs. Faces obscured by masks, bundled in tattered, shredded, worn, or dirty clothing, decorated in the natural colors of earth and the artificial ones of the city, scurry back and forth across the roads. Nobody ever strolls leisurely, nobody ever enjoys their liberation, nobody ever drops the hint of a smile behind the thin cloth of their masks and raises their arm in a friendly wave at strangers anymore. It’s not like anyone has liberty, has leisure, or has the reason to smile in the light of the way the world has been molded.

Jonghyun turns his back to the sky behind him. He glances at the muddled gray of the concrete floor beneath him, his eyes moving up to the worn and deformed shape of the mattress in front of him, the blanket resting on top of it as thin and as gray and dirty as the floor.

His hand fingers the single bill inside his other pocket and he closes his eyes. It wouldn’t be long before he’d have to resort to another odd method of obtaining cash, for he’d never use one of the credit cards he’d managed to pickpocket off of various unsuspecting pedestrians until he was sure it was nearing his time to go. The cards would be reported as missing quickly, and tracking their movements is nothing but a simple matter.

Once upon a time, that single bill inside Jonghyun’s pocket was multiplied into millions of other bills. Once upon a time, he could afford more than just a dirty mattress on the floor; he could afford actual commodities. He could pay for them with a wave of his hand, and have them brought to him with the whisper of a single word, and enjoy them without a single shred of remorse in the back of his mind.

But unfortunately, war rages on. As such, power, wealth, and secrets are passed around, bargained and sold like tangible items.

He heavily regrets meddling in politics. The king of an underground nation run by dirty cash and fed by fear cannot rely on his allies if he himself is caught in conflict, no matter how loyal his men may seem, for there was no loyalty held in their hearts to begin with.

And then when the government decided to do a purge on all of their officials, Jonghyun is caught in the middle. From the outside, he appeared to be a simple bystander, but that’s not the case. With money, you have a way of influence, and Jonghyun liked to meddle. It was his version of having fun. Sadly, politicians are cheap. That's why they're able to be bought in the first place.

A king will fall one day or another, but the greed in Jonghyun’s heart brought his downfall just as fast as it had brought him his power and wealth.

* * *

When he sees him, the lanterns in Shanghai make him almost unrecognizable.

Jonghyun sits at a wooden table in a quaint, old-fashioned restaurant located in the middle of what used to be Shanghai’s cultural core. The red paper lining the walls is still held up, but just barely. They peel away and hang from the ages-old glue like a prisoner who's lost the will to fight against his fetters.

The hostess, an elderly and stout woman, watches Jonghyun from behind her counter. He's the only one in the room besides her.

When he finishes his food, she shuffles over to collect his plate and utensils.

“Good?” she asks, her voice cracked at the edges and thick.

“Yes,” Jonghyun replies, and smiles at her. “Thank you for the meal.”

The woman nods at him, and takes his dishes with her as she retreats back to the kitchen.

Jonghyun stands from his seat, tucking his hands in his pockets. He swivels his head around the room, taking in the decor surrounding him.

The room is only illuminated through the dark red and gold paper of traditional Chinese lanterns hung from strings suspended across the ceiling. A rusting Buddha statue with a long dried-up fountain near the entrance faces the tables. The doors of the restaurant are designed in a way that they mimic the grandeur of ancient palaces, able to be opened tucking your hand on the solid half of a circular latch and pulling, although their once beautiful wood finish and design has chipped away to reveal the cheap wood beneath and their tracks no longer run smoothly and creak with a small tug.

What catches Jonghyun’s eye, however, is the large aquarium in the middle of the restaurant.

He walks over and leans forward, peering through the water.

The glass is covered with algae, making the water appear a green-blue and muddling his view into the aquarium. The contents inside the glass are decorated -- fake reefs are tucked into the gravel at the bottom of the water, seaweed strands stand and wave back and forth like the trees in a windy forest, and a small cave in the corner of the aquarium indicates that there was once an animal, or several animals, living in the waters.

Jonghyun peers around. He doesn't see any life, until the flashing blue and yellow of a fish weaves back and forth between the seaweed stalks in front of him.

“He's quite a fighter, isn't he?” A voice asks from behind him.

Jonghyun turns around.

“Yes, he is,” he replies, smiling.

The man behind him is wearing a clean navy blue suit. His collar is bright white and starched, folded perfectly above the lapels of his suit jacket. It's quite a contrast to Jonghyun’s wrinkled button-down and pants whose ankles are covered in mud and grime.

The muted glow from the lanterns in the background frame his face in a way that makes him look like he's the one radiating the light. However, it's an aura far from ethereal, more like eerie, and Jonghyun stares.

“Is the food here good? Should I order?” the man asks, humming nonchalantly to himself.

“The hostess is quite a good cook,” Jonghyun says, and the man smiles at him.

“Then I'll eat,” he replies, “Anything you would like to recommend?”

“Nothing, choose anything,” Jonghyun says. “There is not a lot left on the menu.”

“All right.” The man turns around, and he heads to the counter where the elderly lady greets him with the closest thing to a smile Jonghyun has seen from her all night.

* * *

The sliding doors in the back of the restaurant don't creak as much as those in the front.

Jonghyun opens one, clutching a set of blankets given to him by the hostess in his arm.

Stepping a foot into the room, the tatami beneath his foot crunches slightly from age, the wood and straw it's composed of already stiff and brittle.

He lays out one of the blankets on the floor and seats himself on top of it.

One of his hands reaches inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a handheld notebook. He flips the cover open, removing the pen inside it from its clip. After sifting through pages for a few seconds, he finds an empty section and begins to write.

* * *

A sound at the door raises Jonghyun’s attention from his writing to the room’s entrance.

The door begins to slide open slowly, and when it reveals who's behind its movement Jonghyun raises an eyebrow.

“Not intruding, am I?” the man asks. His hands are tucked casually in the pockets of his navy blue suit pants, the tone of his voice confident and relaxed.

“How did you even get back here?” Jonghyun asks. There's no scathing in his words -- he's genuinely curious.

“Xiaohui, the hostess, let me in. I thought you'd be staying here,” he replies.

Jonghyun tilts his head. “Well, where are your manners? You didn't even knock.”

The man smiles at Jonghyun, and he closes the door and seats himself across the latter.

“No ‘I'm sorry’ or even, ‘Can I enter’?”

“Fine,” the man replies, good-naturedly, “I'm sorry.”

Jonghyun opens his mouth, but the man beats him to it. “You need to be more careful, Jonghyun,” he warns, his voice suddenly quiet and low. “One of _them_ managed to snap a picture of you walking down the street a few kilometers away from here.”

“Oh,” Jonghyun murmurs. He shakes his head and sighs.

“Thank you for the warning, Minhyun,” he says. He looks down at the ground, and then back up at Minhyun sitting across from him.

“What have you been up to, anyways?” he asks.

Minhyun almost laughs. “Do you really even need to ask that?”

Jonghyun smiles bitterly.

He really needn't, he knows. He knows what Minhyun has been tasked with, why he's all the way here in Shanghai, trailing on the back of Jonghyun’s heels, following the path of his scent all over the continent, and not resting with his paws folded over his nice pillows back in their home country. Why he’s the one in the nice suit and Jonghyun is stuck wearing ill-fitting clothes he’d bought for cheap from a salesman on the street.

When Minhyun reaches into the inside of the breast of his suit jacket, his movement only fortifies the dread in Jonghyun’s heart.

Minhyun looks at him, never breaking eye contact, as he pulls out a gun. He places it next to him.

Jonghyun gulps.

One day that gun would be the one to take his life.

That day may not be today, Jonghyun knows. But he is aware he's living on borrowed time, and soon there would be no more time left in the world he could borrow. All the troubles he’s caused will soon catch up to him, where he will no longer be able to run from their consequences.

Minhyun pushes his gun an arms length away from him. Looking directly at Jonghyun, he moves over until he is sitting directly behind him.

Jonghyun watches his movements carefully, both in an alert and curious fashion. His heart pounds in his chest as a shot of adrenaline enters his veins. He knows Minhyun will not hurt him--at least not at the moment--but nonetheless, his natural reaction is to be on high alert.

Minhyun breaks eye contact, and he looks down as he slowly slides his left hand into the pocket of Jonghyun’s pants and pulls out the gun hidden there.

“How did you--” Jonghyun begins, but the way Minhyun looks at him quiets his words.

“A hidden second pocket is an amateur way of concealment, Jonghyun,” Minhyun says, “And I'm not dumb. I noticed the way your pant leg folded when you walked.”

Jonghyun chuckles sourly. “You're right,” he says, “I suppose my sewing skills really do need some work.”

Minhyun pushes Jonghyun’s gun away. It slides and hits the other gun, coming to rest at its side.

Jonghyun turns his head around to look at the other. His stare is met with an unreadable expression on Minhyun’s face, but Jonghyun can see the emotion in his eyes flickering between a painful regret and a building guilt.

Minhyun’s expression conveys words that resonate in Jonghyun’s chest, for he feels them himself.

“It's been a long time,” Minhyun whispers. There's a tinge of thickness to his voice, the kind that arises when someone tries to hold back a spill of emotions.

“Yes,” Jonghyun replies, his voice equally as low. “I missed you, Minhyun,” he says, blinking his eyes slowly and licking his lips as he drowns himself in the whirlpool of Minhyun’s stare.

“I missed you, too,” Minhyun replies. He places a hand on Jonghyun’s shoulder.

Jonghyun closes his eyes and Minhyun leans in, their lips connecting softly.

It's a sensation Jonghyun hasn't had the luxury of experiencing in so long. His head swirls as dizzying rushes of blood and adrenaline surge against his nerves, moving up to his brain; but they soon are drowned out by the vivid thrumming of his own heartbeat in his ear.

It's so overpowering that he almost doesn't recognize the brief spark of pain as the back of his head hits the stiff tatami beneath him when Minhyun topples him over.

* * *

Jonghyun escapes in the middle of the night.

He’s dressed himself and slips on his face mask and cap, before fumbling around in the dark for his gun. His hands touch both of the guns sitting next to each other, but the thickness and dip in the handle of the one in his left hand tells him it’s his.

Minhyun’s gun is thin and smooth, from the handle down to the barrel. It’s a newer model, one that shoots bullets smaller than a thumbtack with the quietness of a dart hitting the cork of a target board. Sleek and covert. Quite like its owner.

Jonghyun tucks his own gun into his pocket. He doesn’t glance back once as he silently steps to the door, and with the gentlest movements possible he tugs it open and slips himself out.

He leaves Minhyun still tangled in the blankets, sleeping away.

But it’s more like Minhyun lets Jonghyun leave him, for the sliding doors creak and he’s long been awaken when the void of warmth of another person next to him had left an empty cold sting on his skin.

Minhyun listens to the quiet shuffle of Jonghyun’s footsteps and the slow creak of the door, intermingled with his own breathing. He never dares open an eye.

One day, he will chase. But that day is not today.

* * *

The second time they meet, it is a couple of months later. Jonghyun has hidden himself away in Prague.

Nations who are able to support refugees rarely offer political asylum to people with pre-existing background conditions as complicated as Jonghyun. But during the progress of the war, an iron curtain had once again begun to fall on Eastern Europe, with the Czech Republic caught in the middle. And as such, citizens are much more willing to rely on unconventional methods in order to gain a meager amount of wealth before that privilege would be taken away.

The hotel he’s in is actually one of the better ones he’s stayed at for in the time he’s been on the run. Instead of being resigned to a mattress on the floor, he actually now has a real bed frame (although it’s quite rickety and threatens to collapse whenever he sits down). They’ve provided him basic human commodities, such as a landline, a microwave, and a bathroom far from the essential standards of one, but operational nonetheless.

A housekeeper offers him the scant pickings of cornmeal porridge, cornbread, and boiled potatoes together as a sort of dinner. He gulps down the food, not because he’s enjoying it in all of its bland and cardboard-like glory, but because it’s the first full meal he’s touched in what seems like eternity.

While he eats, he watches the sky from the grainy window in his room. He faces west, watching the sun descend behind the hills in a wash of ugly pasty yellow, leaving a trail of cinders and smoke in its path.

Sometimes he will write in his pocket notebook, scribbling down phrases that may seem insignificant to others but reflect deep into the depths of his person to those that are aware of all of the nuances of his character. The pages have long begun to yellow at the edges, and they crunch as they are pressed together. But they still retain the ink of Jonghyun’s pen, and so he is content.

After his meal, he steps into the bath.

The water that flows out of the faucet sprays in all the random directions, covering his face and shirt in grimy droplets. He can see the muddiness of the water as it fills the tub -- it’s dusty, full of specks of dirt and colored in such a way that it reminds him of pond water after a landslide.

But Jonghyun doesn’t care, as the water is warm enough to chase away the worst of the chills the deep winter has brought him.

As the tub fills, he strips, before turning off the faucet and stepping in when it’s high enough to submerge him but low enough to not overflow.

Jonghyun relaxes himself against the tub, the side of his right cheek coming to rest against the rim of the porcelain as there’s not enough space for him to tilt his head back. The volume of the tub is small, nowhere near long enough to fit the length of a grown man, so he bends his knees, keeping one foot submerged in the water while the other dangles over the edge of the tub half-heartedly.

And just like that, he immerses himself in an almost drunken daze, his eyes half-lidded as he absent-mindedly swirls his fingers through the water, watching the dirt collect in ribbons and dance around each other before he disperses them with a flick of his wrist.

His attention constantly switches from watching the water to watching the lamp dangling above his head, flickering on and off constantly with its swaying, only held to its source of electricity by a thin, fraying cable.

It relaxes him, to the point where he almost falls asleep; the water has cooled to a mildly lukewarm temperature before he’s thrown out of his trance.

There’s a knock at the bathroom door. It’s firm, unforgiving, and before Jonghyun can process any clear thought in his mind the door opens.

As he sees the person standing in the doorway, a small, placid smile appears on his face. The water has calmed him to the point where he couldn’t be bothered to care about what was going on at the moment, especially since he recognizes who he’s looking at.

“What are you going to do, shoot me?” he asks, staring at the barrel of the gun pointed directly at him. He nonchalantly props an elbow on the rim of the tub and rests his temple on his fist.

Minhyun lowers his gun and unhooks his mask from his ears, taking it off and shoving it into his pocket. “What kind of a rude greeting is that?” he replies, a smile appearing on his face. “At least I knocked this time.”

Jonghyun sighs, closing his eyes. “You could, you know,” he says, “Right now.” It’s only been a few months since they’ve sent Minhyun on his trail -- it’s the perfect time frame for a kill; fast for many people, but normal for Minhyun. Minhyun could send a bullet through his head right this second, drag his body back with him to their home country, and present him to the emperor like an offering to the gods. His name would go on the extensive list of Minhyun’s accomplishments, where one day he’d be reduced to just that -- a name on a list, lost amongst the chaotic group of identities of other criminals, both small-time and global, where they’ve become muddled together into one large mass on a piece of paper. A paper that is clamped proudly between the jaws of the emperor’s favorite mutt, presented to people with his tail wagging back and forth as they wager sending him on another hunt.

Minhyun’s stance softens, and he tucks his gun back into the breast of his jacket. He’s not wearing a suit anymore, instead opting for a winter jacket, cargo pants, and a pair of hiking boots. Dressed to fit in like a civilian.

“The Russians will not be happy when they find you staying here,” he says, gently. It’s not a direct warning for Jonghyun to follow, but he understands what Minhyun is trying to convey. Russia would move her forces further west within a few days and push towards the heart of the Czech Republic. The country would soon fold as easily as they had in previous wars, and Jonghyun must move again.

Jonghyun nods slowly. Even though he is being chased, and Minhyun is the one chasing him, they both work together to try extend their game of cat-and-mouse by buying more time.

Buy more time for Jonghyun’s life, and buy more time for Minhyun’s sanity.

Minhyun walks towards him, and kneels down next to Jonghyun.

“You’ve gotten thinner,” he notes, eyes flickering across Jonghyun’s face.

“Barley and corn meal is all I can find nowadays,” Jonghyun smiles bitterly.

“Jiyoung would hurt to see you like this,” Minhyun murmurs, running his fingers along Jonghyun’s jaw. The pads of his fingers are decorated with calluses, the skin there rough but firm, all from years of work in his field coupled with the harsh dryness that winter had brought upon them that year.

Jonghyun closes his eyes. “Then I’m glad she’s dead,” he says. There is no room for attachment for either side of the relationship when one party is guaranteed to be dead within the next year.

“Jonghyun-ah, don’t say that,” Minhyun chides, but there is no viciousness in his tone. “It would hurt her even more if she were listening from above and heard you say those words.”

Jonghyun opens his eyes. “Why are you being so soft?” he asks, “Aren’t you supposed to be the tough one?”

“I don’t know about that,” Minhyun replies. He blinks slowly, as if contemplating what he’s about to say. But when he opens his mouth, no words come out, but his movements betray the words he wants to say. His fingers run up Jonghyun’s temple, brushing his hair away from his forehead, and combing through his dark brown locks, before coming to rest on the back on his head.

Minhyun leans forward, pulling Jonghyun towards him until their foreheads rest against each other.

“They’re going to be here soon,” he whispers.

His fingers tighten against the back of Jonghyun’s skull, gripping his hair, before he kisses him like it’s the first time he’s fallen in love.

* * *

The third time they meet, the blast catches Jonghyun off-guard.

He’s strolling down the streets of Venice, eyes flickering back and forth in search of another peddler on the street that he could bargain with for a loaf of bread.

Only for a split second does he recognize the smell of smoke, before the earth thunders and the brick walls on either side of the street begin to crumble.

The giant surge of heat blows through the area like a tidal wave, searing everything in its path, and Jonghyun is thrown back against the wall next to him. The impact of the solid brick against his back chokes the breath out of his lungs, and when he falls against the ground the world around him becomes black.

He doesn’t know how long he lies unconscious, but it’s not for long as he can soon detect the bleakest rays of light through his barely-open eyes and hear the shouts of the people around him. What really awoke him out of his daze, however, was the sensation of the movement of another person next to him.

He’s barely able to register a heavy weight sitting on his lower body, grinding against his knees and shins whenever he tries to move his leg. But slowly, the weight is lifted off of him, the person removing it grunting as they do so. A particular large slab of weight digs into his flesh as it is being forcefully pushed off of him, and Jonghyun winces, pressing his eyes tightly closed, at the sudden pain. He swears he hears the person next to him say a quick “sorry” before they roll the slab off to the side, where it lands with a dull thud on the ground.

Soon, when he is free of the weight on his lower body, he feels a pair of arms slip underneath his armpits, wrapping around his chest, and pulling him up. His head lolls back, as he’s still wavering at the border of consciousness and comatose. But the only thing he is able to detect, besides the sensation of being lifted up in the air, is the scent of smoke. It’s the only thing he can remember before he slips into a true state of unconsciousness.

* * *

When he wakes up, the world around him is a blinding white.

It takes a few moments of rapid blinking before he can register his surroundings.

He’s resting on something soft, staring up at a white ceiling.

Jonghyun’s initial reaction is to sit up, but before he manages to do so a hand is placed firmly on his chest, pressing him back into the mattress beneath his back.

“Don’t move,” a voice says, and Jonghyun recognizes it. “I’m trying to stop the bleeding.”

The hand removes itself from his chest, and it joins the other one pressing against his right ribcage.

Jonghyun tilts his head to the side, just enough so he can see who’s next to him.

“...Minhyun?” he croaks, his throat rough and dry from the smoke. His breath catches in his throat, and he coughs violently, his chest heaving as his lungs try to catch up with the rest of his body.

“Shush, don’t speak,” Minhyun says. Out of the corner of his eye, Jonghyun sees Minhyun turn around and grab something. It’s a white piece of fabric, Jonghyun realizes, as Minhyun folds it and presses it against his rib.

It’s the spot where the harshest of the throbbing pains throughout Jonghyun’s body is located, and now that he’s regained his consciousness, he winces at the pressure applied to the sensitive area.

“What the hell happened?” Jonghyun whispers.

“Suicide bombing,” Minhyun replies. His words are clipped.

“What are you doing?” Jonghyun asks, looking up at Minhyun. His forehead is wrinkled, the muscles in his cheeks and jaw tense, as he’s deep in concentration, frustration, worry, or a combination of all three. Grime covers his cheeks and forehead. Drops of sweat sliding off of his temples leave clean trails of skin in their wake.

“Patching you up, of course,” Minhyun laughs shakily, “Now, if only this spot would stop bleeding…”

“If one of my ribs has punctured through my skin, Minhyun,” Jonghyun begins, and he almost knows that’s the case, as whenever he breathes he feels something pushing against his lung. “Don’t bother.” He smiles weakly. He’s recognized the fate to which he’s been assigned. For as long as he can instantly recall, he’s been running, and it’s drained his spirit, not knowing if the next day he will live on. It’s drained his motivation to keep on going, to keep on pushing his luck even though in the back of his mind he knows that his time will come to an end in only a short while. And in that split second, in the shaky breath he takes, he comes to terms with himself in his heart and his mind. If it’s his time to go, then so be it.

“No, don’t say that,” Minhyun instantly replies. He pushes even harder against Jonghyun’s wound, the frustration evident in his stare. “No, that’s not going to happen, you’ll be okay, you’ll live--”

“But,” Jonghyun begins, and he laughs weakly, breath barely managing to reach his lungs. At this point, his body has adjusted to the pain, and all he feels is a dull throbbing spread all over his limbs. “Wasn’t your goal in the first place to kill me? You can do that now. You’d be helping me, in fact.” He coughs suddenly, his body twitching with his movements. “Put me out of my misery.”

Minhyun doesn’t seem like he’s heard Jonghyun’s words. He hurriedly turns around, and presents another strip of white gauze. His hands, stained red with blood, shake violently as he tries to fold the cloth. He doesn’t succeed, and in frustration he scrunches it up and replaces the other already soaked-through gauze anyway.

“H-Hey,” he begins, the corners of his lips lifting up in a trembling smile, “Remember when we first met?”

Jonghyun looks at him curiously. “Why are you talking about something that happened almost two decades ago?”

Minhyun ignores his question.“You know, I wonder how we got here… I remember picking you up on the street because you looked like you were hungry. Remember how we used to raid candy shops together? With the other boys, our little gang. Dongho, Minki, Youngmin, you, and I. Remember how we used to sell the candy we got to the other kids on the street? And we gathered that big pile of coins together. We said we’d save it up to one day buy a big robot.”

Minhyun blinks his eyes rapidly as he stares down at Jonghyun’s wound, his jaw quivering.

“Yes, of course,” Jonghyun replies softly. “How could I forget?”

“Do you remember what we said we’d be when we were adults? What our dreams were when we were kids? We were so sure they’d come true,” Minhyun continues.

“Yes,” Jonghyun says, “You would be the next emperor and I would be the CEO of the biggest company in the world.”

Minhyun dips his head so that Jonghyun can’t see his face. “Then how’d we get to here?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, “How did we stray so far off from our path?”

“There’s a lot of things to consider, Minhyun,” Jonghyun replies, quietly. He turns his head, pushing his jaw against his neck to look at Minhyun next to him. The other’s head is still bowed, eyes squeezed shut and lips parted slightly with each shallow breath he takes.

But out of the corner of his eye, Jonghyun sees Minhyun’s hands pressing against the cloth over his wound, and he notices that the fabric is already dyed a bright red, staining Minhyun’s fingers an even more opaque scarlet. A small droplet of blood slides down his skin, where to comes to meet the dirty white of his shirt, blossoming into a red splatter as it creeps across the threads.

Jonghyun pushes his left arm forward, hitting Minhyun’s hands away from him. He tries to sit himself up, leaning onto his elbow and barely managing to hover a few inches off of the mattress. With his hand, he pushes Minhyun’s arms towards the nightstand.

“Just do it,” he manages to breathe out, sweat sliding off of his temples as keeping himself up through the pain is rapidly draining his muscles of all of their energy.

Minhyun raises his head slightly, looking at Jonghyun, and he turns his head in the direction Jonghyun’s yanking his chin.

A gun lies on the bleached wood of the nightstand, the dark metallic black of its finish glinting in the low light of the room.

“Please,” Jonghyun rasps out.

Minhyun looks at the gun for a few long seconds, before one of his arms slowly reaches out towards it.

Jonghyun flops back down, relieved at no longer having to hold himself up.

He hears Minhyun push the stool he’d been sitting on behind him as he stands up. Jonghyun turns his head, watching the other’s movements.

A blanket of calm settles over his mind. It is the final solution, he thinks, to all of the conflicts in his life. It is the final solution to the pain he’s caused himself, but most importantly, the pain he’s caused others.

As Minhyun points the barrel of the gun at him, he smiles.

He is ready to become the next name on Minhyun’s list. He is ready to become Minhyun’s next trophy, a thing Minhyun can proudly present to other people and say, _I did this_. _It was me._ It is the most selfless decision Jonghyun has ever made, but simultaneously the most selfish decision too. He will release himself from his own self-inflicted troubles, but he will also give himself up for the benefit of another person.

At the same instant, as Minhyun is staring at where his gun is aimed, his hands shake as violently as his heart beats.

He knew the day that he was given a slip of paper with only the words _Kim Jonghyun_ on it that he was going to lose his mind.

He had followed Jonghyun all over the world, keeping just a few paces behind, as to never cause suspicion to his officers. He had watched Jonghyun from a distance, tracing the man’s steps, pushing him onward and farther away from himself just so he could create a chase and further delay the ultimate fate to which they both were designated.

Minhyun knew that this day would come, and that it would be the day that he gives up the last remains of his soul and his humanity and truly becomes the mutt, whose only goal and only expectation is to hunt and kill -- the mutt the emperor had trained him to be.

He squeezes his eyes tightly shut, finger tensed against the trigger, and pulls.

Jonghyun feels a sharp pain in his abdomen, and everything turns black.

* * *

He’s not sure what day it is, what year it is, or even what century it is when he wakes up.

A cold breeze runs over his chest, and he brings up a hand to cover himself, only to find his skin meeting bare skin. Running his hand back and forth, he finds his shirt has been cut in half, right down the center.

He sits up suddenly, wincing slightly at the tugging sensation on the right side of his torso.

A folded piece of paper falls into his lap.

Unfolding it, he squints his eyes as he begins to read.

_Jonghyun,_

 

_I’m sorry I had to do this, but I would have never forgiven myself if I actually killed you. It was fentanyl, not a bullet, that I shot into you. If you are reading this, I assume you are well and perfectly recovered. The drug should have been potent enough to render you unconscious for the minimum time it’d take for the wound to begin to close. I had found a street doctor by the name of Nižník and enlisted in his help to put you back together. He reset the position of the broken rib and sewed up the wound. I do not know if it will heal correctly, but it is the best I could provide in only a short time. My only wish is that you are alive and not suffering. You will see next to you on the nightstand two wallets. One of them is yours, which I have recovered from the body of a victim of the bombing. You are to use his ID as your own. Rest assured, I have eliminated all evidence that the man ever died._

_Next, please speak with Nižník -- dye your hair, alter your face, enlist in whatever help he may provide to assure that you’ll never be recognized again. You can find him working in the barber shop on the corner of Contarina Road._

_The other wallet is mine. Take the money in there, and burn all of the rest of the contents in it along with the home which you are staying in. It is one owned by the government for special use for people like me, so do not worry about its owners. There is a tank of gasoline on the table in the kitchen, it should be enough to light the whole area on fire. I cannot stress enough that you must do this as soon as possible, for although the Italian military is unprepared and their government's chain of command is disorganized, at the time of my writing I anticipate that they will begin investigations during the time frame that coincides with the period that the drug's effects would have worn off._

_Jonghyun, both you and I died in the bombing. Fortunately for us, low concentrations of napalm had been used in the bombs, which allowed the fire to spread around the target source, providing the ideal alibi. It spread to this area and demolished some of the housing here. That is the only backstory you need to know._

_One last thing. Please do not worry about my whereabouts, I assure you I will be safe. There are a few things to which I must attend immediately._

_One day, I will reunite with you again._

_Yours forever,_

 

_Hwang Minhyun_

 

Jonghyun’s hands tremble as he holds on to Minhyun’s letter.

His vision begins to blur, and a single tear lands on the paper, smudging the blue ink and spreading it in every direction as more droplets join the first one.

* * *

**_fin._ **

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for making it all the way to the end of this fic!  
> want to also thank S for being lovely enough to read and edit my stuff (even though lots of it still needs work HAHA) <3
> 
> subtle call-out to niz 1.0 for his weak slav squat


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